Upon arriving, I walk the stones
lining the beach as it crouches, legs
spread, by an ugly sea—I should have cut
it off rather than watch
it rot away—dank
betrayal—sand falls
from a cliff, blurs
into crevasses like a vulture
searching for delicacies, desperately
searching for anything at all.
The beach has fooled almost everyone
as one man after another tracks
its sagging body, molds
it into whatever shape he prefers.
Poison, poison—
I know your poison.
I know why parts of me
die off cell by cell.
The beach digs a hole,
fills it with rotting limbs.
I say to the sand:
You’re a whore.
The happy song of the bone saw.